


Mrs. Crowley, Mrs. Fell

by TheIneffableLily



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, F/F, F/M, Genderfluid Aziraphale (Good Omens), Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Infidelity, M/M, Married Couple, Roleplay, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23635360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIneffableLily/pseuds/TheIneffableLily
Summary: As far as the people of Tadfield know, Mrs. Crowley is a good, devoted wife, and Mrs. Fell is a shrew and a harlot.What they don't seem to know is that Mrs. Fell is entirely dedicated to her husband while Mrs. Crowley... well, she's mainly just bored all the time.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 220
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Shinbi34's Recommendations





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt on the meme: Sometimes Aziraphale and Crowley will play a game in which one of them is a housewife. (https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2534489)

If asked, the people of Lower Tadfield would have swore there hadn't been a house on that spot only a day before. Number 15 on Elisabeth Lane was immediately followed by Number 16 and nothing existed in between. How 15-B had come to exist was an impossibility that no one wanted to contemplate, and by the time they noticed it stood there, everyone was too busy trying to find a councilman to blame for that modern monstrosity. There had to be bribery involved, they all agreed on that much.

The house's sharp angles, black brick, and glass facade were an assault on neighborhood regulations. There was nothing homey nor quaint about it and the absurdly large windows left very little to the imagination, flaunting a life of luxury and indulgence that the people of Tadfield only saw through their tellies. It was as though that home had been built with the sole purpose of angering people while simultaneous inspiring covetousness and gossip.

Speculation ran abound among the village for two days, but then R. P. Tyler quieted the rumor mill by actually meeting the residents of Number 15-B, something he was more than willing to share with the rest of the village.

The husband was a Londoner, a fact that was met with solemn nods and eye rolls and more than one self-satisfied, “I knew it!” His name was Mr. Crowley and he drove a Bentley to the city every day for work. It wasn't clear what he did, but he carried a Very Important Briefcase and he wore a black suit that spoke of Big Money. R. P. Tyler had spotted him leaving the house that morning while walking his poodle and had tried to give him a talk about abiding by town regulations and making one's home look presentable. Mr. Crowley, with his Suit and his Briefcase, had ignored him and driven away at an absurd speed. The old man huffed and puffed in outrage, quickly deciding that he did not care for Mr. Crowley one bit.

“But what about the wife?” was always the questions asked when R. P. Tyler repeated his story, something he did several times a day.

“Oh, well, the wife is rather lovely,” he had to admit. He did so begrudgingly because that was the only way men like R. P. Tyler said something nice about someone else.

Mr. Crowley was tall and rude. His face had angles as sharp as those of his atrocious house and it was clear he wouldn't be mingling with the rest of town. Mrs. Crowley, on the other hand, was a plump woman with blond hair and a sunny disposition. She had allowed him to rant for thirty minutes before offering him a sympathetic, “Oh, dear! I'm sorry to hear that,” and a plate of warm biscuits. Suddenly, R. P. Tyler wasn't as mad anymore. He couldn't tell why because Mr. Crowley was still a prick and his house was still infuriating, and he should be raving endlessly about it. Yet, he wasn't.

There was something nice about the wife. Something soothing. Maybe it was her flower-pattern dress, or her apron, or the short and curly haircut that made her look as though she'd stepped into the modern world from an era when things made sense. She looked wholesome and traditional, a lady of a different stripe. Mrs. Crowley _belonged_ in a town like this.

“And she's married to that maniac,” said R. P. Tyler, shaking his head.

People were quick to agree with him. Mrs. Crowley was a perfect, dutiful wife who was right at home in Lower Tadfield. She baked pies for their neighbors and joined the local book club within the week, already up to date with their weekly reading. She delighted others with clever quips, always had a cup of sugar to lend to a friend, and did not partake in neighborly gossip. A lady indeed.

Whenever she walked away, people couldn't help but sigh with pity.

“Poor Mrs. Crowley,” they'd say. “All alone in that house while her husband is away.”

Clearly, Mr. Crowley took such a refined lady for granted.

At the same time the Crowleys moved into Tadfield, the Fells took the house across the street from them. No one could explain how Numbers 27 and 28 on Elisabeth Lane were suddenly interrupted by Number 12-B, but by the time they noticed, people were too angry about the numerical mishap to even question how an identical house had apparently dropped from heaven right in the middle of the street.

Mr. and Mrs. Fell abode by the town regulations and their lovely cottage was not an insult to people with good taste and a working pair of eyes. They had a lovely garden and, as everyone knows, only good and civilized people had gardens. Their flower beds were always in bloom, their bushes perfectly trimmed, their lawn greener than their neighbors, but not in such a way that inspired envy. Besides, their windows were properly sized and concealed, too, and they seemed to live a frugal, wholesome life.

The only problem with the Fells was the wife.

Now, there were certain things one shouldn't call a lady, that much R. P. Tyler had learned in early boyhood, but that woman was a hussy and a shrew. The other women in the village were saying it, so it was alright for him to think it to himself.

Mrs. Fell stood in direct contrast to Mrs. Crowley, in where one was pious and good while the other boasted her feminine assets to the entire neighborhood unabashedly. She always wore a pair of heels that never made her tither, not matter if she was sauntering down the street or sloshing through mud. She also wore a black dress regardless of the weather, and the only way R. P. Tyler could tell it was a different dress every day was because they varied in length (from above-the-knee to indecently-above-the-knee) and fit (from skin-tight to oh-dear-lord-is-she-even-wearing-anything). Though her breasts were smaller than Mrs. Crowley – not that R. P. Tyler noticed such things – they were always noticeable. They were always _there_. At least Mrs. Crowley made sure to cover herself and wear loose clothing that only ever hinted at her bountiful attributes. The soft contour of Mrs. Fell's little tits were an affront to decency.

Was this not enough, she was also a nasty woman who took pleasure in making others squirm. She leaned over fences to gossip in hushed tones, the hem of her skirt hitching up and almost exposing her backside o any passerby who happened to be looking. She whispered secrets and rumors and criticism without an ounce of shame and, in a matter of days, the entire village seemed to be on the verge of self-destructing, Mrs. Crowley having to intervene with blueberry pies and a friendly ear.

No one understood why Mr. Fell put up with such behavior any more than they understood why Mrs. Crowley wouldn't leave her husband. Mr. Fell was such a gregarious, lovely man, the sort of man who tried to know his neighbors and made the time to ask after you and your family if you met him on the street. It was unclear what he did for a living and, come to think of it, people never actually saw him leave the house every morning. He did return every day at six o'clock, however, and he often made tired sounds while murmuring “What a day!” to himself whenever someone was within earshot.

One would guess that his wife never behaved in such horrible ways when he was around. People who'd glanced at her while she stood in their front door said her skirt was suddenly longer and her dress much less form-fitting. She welcomed him into their home with a smile that had not an ounce of disdain or flirtation. She played the old sucker like a fiddle.

“Poor Mr. Fell,” people sighed, though they quickly forwent their sympathy and went on to gossip about the Fells behind their backs.

She had to be cheating on him, right? She looked the type, or so people claimed. And hadn't there been an unreasonable amount of mysterious men coming into the neighborhood lately? Sure, they mostly helped Mrs. Crowley with maintenance, but who was to say they didn't sneak into Mrs. Fell's back door once they were done?

She wasn't a good wife. That much people could tell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I truly hope this silliness makes you laugh.

Mrs. Crowley liked to do good. It was something that had been imbued into her from the beginning of creation and, even though she was no longer in speaking terms with “her immediate family” (at least, that was what she told the neighbors), good habits were just as difficult to break as bad ones. Her husband, whom she loved very much, called her “angel” for a reason. A very literal reason, but she didn't have to get into such ethereal matters.

Good deeds made her happy, so while Mr. Crowley was away and Mrs. Fell was going around the neighborhood causing discord and inciting lust, Mrs. Crowley listened to that little angelic voice inside of her and did Good. It was sort of a hobby now, she supposed. She read to children in the park, performed magic tricks that got some _very_ neutral sounds from her audience, baked muffins for the elderly neighbors, and picked any incidental litter she might find on the street. As an angel, she was happy with all of that. As an angel, she felt she had a purpose.

As an angel, however, there were rules and limitations that had to be observed. Technically, they no longer applied, but that was another good habit the angel was yet to unlearn. If _hypothetically speaking_ the angel was to get a deep and sudden urge to do something that he'd been told was truly wicked and amoral, he wouldn't allow himself to do it. He'd show restraint in the face of temptation and continue to focus on doing Good because that was his sole purpose in life.

Mrs. Crowley, on the other hand, had no such restraints. In days when his appetite was tilting towards unconventional, he put on a pretty dress and allowed Mrs. Crowley to break things. Kitchen appliances, mostly. She turned the fridge into a massive block of ice, set fire to the stove until it became a small lump of coal, or blew off all the lightbulbs in the house with a snap of her fingers.

On that particular afternoon, she decided to break the sink the old fashioned way: by taking a hammer to it and causing a small deluge in her kitchen. It was overkill, yes, but it allowed her to weep on the phone, claiming she was in desperate need of a strong and capable handyman to come and rescue her from the mess she'd made.

Within five minutes, said strong and capable handyman was at her door, arching an eyebrow above his sunglasses as he caught sight of her. Though she smiled like nothing was out of place, her flowery dress was drenched and her curly blond hair was dripping water. Her wet steps led to an ankle-deep flood in her kitchen. Were Mrs. Crowley a respectable, decent angel, she'd feel ashamed now, but as a married woman who only wanted a little attention and a break from routine, she thought being respectable and decent were overrated qualities.

The handyman sighed at the sight of her. He introduced himself as Anton and, despite all of the evidence literally at his feet, he still asked her what the problem seemed to be. There was something rustic about him that immediately caught her attention and made her feel week in the knees. He was so much broader than Mr. Crowley, with strong hands that seemed made for manual labor and a bulge in the front of his jeans that was difficult not to stare at. He spoke with an accent that was somewhere between bad cockney and just plain slurred, she couldn't quite pin it down – then again, she guessed neither could Anton, the Well-Endowed Handyman.

Mrs. Crowley went into her little scene, wiping her wet hands on her wet apron and telling the tale of how she'd been about to get down to her hands and knees to scrub the floor clean when her sink had simply... exploded. Who could trust these modern appliances? She batted her eyelashes and tried to look helpless before asking, "Can you fix it?"

Anton lowered his sunglasses. His yellow eyes gave her an appraising look that seemed to be criticizing her limited acting skills, then he snapped his fingers and the water stopped pouring from the broken sink. Mrs. Crowley could handle the clean-up herself once they were done. He was a Well-Endowed Handyman, not the bloody scullery maid.

The woman sighed with relief, a sound that was a little too falsetto to indicate genuine relief.

“Oh, dear! Aren't you a clever young man!” she beamed. “So efficient! So very strong! I'll give you a large tip for working so fast!” She patted her soaked pockets down and her smile turned into a frown. “How unfortunate! My husband seems to have left me no money this morning! How could I possibly-”

“Really, angel?” Anton let slip, only his voice was no longer thick with an accent but drenched in disappointment.

Mrs. Crowley threw him a look behind wet locks of hair, though those eyes suited a smiting angel better than they did a bored suburban wife.

“Yes, _really_!” she insisted. “How could I _possibly_ repay you if I have no money?”

Anton sighed and recited, “Well, I can think of a few ways.”

She brought a hand to her mouth, scandalized. “Oh, dear, whatever do you mean? I sure hope you're not about to make me a lewd offer, young man. I'll have you know I am a happily married woman who could _never_ cheat on her-”

“Okay, that's my limit,” Crowley declared and made use of his new, muscled arms to rip the front of her dress open. Mrs. Crowley let out a shriek as her buttons went flying and clattered on the floor. Since she hadn't bothered to put on a bra that morning (something that _should_ have been a plot point later, she might add), her heavy breasts were fully exposed to the young man, who was finally smiling. “Now, where were we?”

He tried to reach for her, but Mrs. Crowley slapped the tips of his fingers. She placed her hands on her hips and gave him an indignant look.

“I believe I gave you a very clear script,” she protested, though her soft pitch was replaced by something a little more masculine.

Anton said, “You did. It was twelve pages long.”

“Well?”

“Anton reads at a kindergarten level.”

She fumed.

He shrugged. “It's part of his character arc. You did grant me creative liberties.”

“That is not the point!” Aziraphale said, wagging a finger at him. “I specifically told you to seduce me and I always play along when it's _your_ turn. I know it's cliche and that you have worked very hard on your backstory, but I get to pick and this is what I wanted to-”

Crowley dropped his pants and let his massive erection free. There were inches that hadn't been there the night before.

Mrs. Crowley's mouth began to salivate, so Aziraphale found it best to shut it up.

“Are you seduced?”

She got to her knees.

“Yes, you're quite persuasive.”

It didn't occur to either of them to be careful about such things. The massive living room windows extended from floor to ceiling, giving Elisabeth Lane a broad view of Mrs. Crowley on her knees, sucking off a man who was most definitely not her husband. Any of the neighbors would have been shocked to find such a thing. Just the enthusiasm with which her head bobbed on the man's cock would have been enough to give R. P. Tyler a stroke.

Neither bothered to move away from the windows, though. Anton quite enjoyed the thought of spreading outrage and heart attacks through the neighborhood while Mrs. Crowley only really remembered the open windows when she pulled away from the handyman, and by then she was too aroused to care. She turned around and let the man take her on the floor. He wasn't as gentle as her dear husband, for which she was glad. Mr. Crowley often treated her like a queen – a particularly chaste one. He would never do to her what that man was so willing to do. Anton had no love for her, no other thought in his head but to satisfy his own urges by using her as roughly as possible. And, oh dear! Rough as he might be, he was not in any hurry to be done with her.

Anton didn't kiss her. He didn't ask if her poor knees were sore or if she needed a break when her soft moaning turned into a tired whining, nor when she rested her tits on the floor and simply laid there, waiting for him to be done. He hadn't kept score of her orgasms, but he still saw her exhausted body shiver with pleasure at least twice as he pounded into her, but after that, it became clear he'd squeezed every last ounce of energy out of her. He grunted and pushed and emptied himself inside of her.

For one last time, Mrs. Crowley sighed with contentment. That was exactly what she needed.

Anton collected himself as best he could. He reminded her, “You do have an appointment at six, angel. Do get yourself together by then,” in his rough and poorly conceived accent.

Mrs. Crowley didn't make a sound, too exhausted for anything other than a smile. She couldn't feel her knees and she was almost certain she was drooling on her expensive hardwood floor. It was as though she'd been brought to the brink of discorporation several times over and she wasn't getting up anytime soon.

“Angel?”

He got a grunt in response. Anton checked his watch. There were still three hours, and he could always give her a little incentive.

He left the front door wide open on his way out.

Twenty minutes later, since Mrs. Crowley hadn't moved from the floor, Mrs. Fell walked out of her own house. While other neighbors might have looked away in horror or come to see if Mrs. Crowley was still alive, Mrs. Fell could tell exactly what had happened in that house. The sight of Mrs. Crowley's bare ass and the mess that had had been made of her cunt made it very clear. She rushed to the gate and whistled.

“Aren't you a pretty picture?”

And that finally got Mrs. Crowley to move. First to her side, then to her sore knees, and finally to the door. Truly, it was only by a miracle that no one had spotted her, but Mrs. Fell would claim credit for that. She was too busy smirking from her front gate and dreaming about how infuriated her neighbors would be if she started spreading nasty rumors about the things Mrs. Crowley did with the handyman while her husband was away.

No one would believe her, of course. Everyone knew that Mrs. Crowley was an angel.


	3. Chapter 3

Mrs. Tennor from two houses over didn't appreciate the story of how Mrs. Fell had found their neighbor on the kitchen floor in post-orgasmic bliss. She went on a rant about why she shouldn't spread lies about the most beloved member of their community. It was for things like that, she claimed, that the rest of the neighborhood didn't like her, and unless she changed her behavior in the near future, she would most definitely _not_ be invited to any neighborhood functions. Mrs. Fell listened to her with a self-satisfied smirk, then asked her, “Do you promise?” which caused Mrs. Tennor to huff with self-righteous indignation and storm off. It was delightful.

Mrs. Fell had been through many contentious locations before and had caused the destruction of several of them. Instigating revolutions, the fall of empires, and the crumbling of entire government structures was an art she'd refined to perfection and of which she was very proud. When she claimed to be responsible for the fall of Rome (which wasn't strictly true), no one in her office batted an eye at that since she had the reputation of being extremely good what at she did.

Since moving to Lower Tadfield, however, she wondered why she'd overlooked the joys of watching small towns implode from the inside out for so long. She'd never thought that turning mundane, suburban people against each other by appealing to their most basic instincts could be so much fun. Small scale, sure, but still very satisfying to the part of her who took pleasure in mayhem.

It was easy for the people of Lower Tadfield to like Mrs. Crowley. Being good came naturally to her and people loved a friendly, non-threatening face, especially when it was accompanied by a willingness to do favors without expecting anything in return. Mrs. Fell understood that. She had her own urges, though none as altruistic as Mrs. Crowley. The need to cause trouble was just part of her, like a maddening itch that only tickled harder if she tried to ignore it. Causing outrage and disapproval in people was an easy way to scratch it without having to cause large-scale changes in the world.

Of course, she ached for the frantic pace of London at times, but it had been a lovely idea to get a second home in the countryside. She could spend her afternoons fomenting lies and petty disputes, poking old wounds about who had stolen whose barbecue grill, or who had been seen flirting with the postman. The entire town was simmering with delicious resentment.

However, everything stopped when the clock struck ten minutes to six o'clock. No matter how entertained she might have been at the time, she always stopped what she was doing and she headed home to change. Mr. Fell always got home at six o'clock and she had to look presentable. What would her dear husband say if he caught sight of her dressed in such a revealing manner?

The dresses she wore for Mr. Fell weren't as matronly as those of Mrs. Crowley and she wouldn't be caught dead wearing anything other than black, but they were conservative dresses nonetheless. They buttoned at the front, fell just below the knee, and revealed very little of her lean frame. Mr. Fell always looked pleased to see her when she opened the door for him.

“I seem to have forgotten my key this morning, dear,” he told her, as he did every night.

She gave him a peck on the lips and teased him in good nature, “You'd forget your head if it were not attached to your neck, Mr. Fell.”

Across the street, R. P. Tyler was shaking his head at her. Just because she could, she gave him the finger behind Mr. Fell's back. She'd never heard anyone gasp so furiously.

Once the door was shut, she helped Mr. Fell shrug off his jacket and undid his tartan tie.

“And how was your dear, love?”

“Oh, terribly exhausting. I'm still not sure how I got myself home.”

“You poor thing. You work too hard. Let me get you your dinner.”

Being kind didn't come naturally to Mrs. Fell. It was much easier to be a bastard, someone who caused pain and resentment in others. Outside of their charming little cottage, she didn't even bother fighting her wicked nature. Once her husband was home, however, there was permission to leave the expectations that had been imposed on her outside. Behind their closed door and tiny windows, she could simply be _his_ and let him tell her what to be.

With grace and poise that Mrs. Crowley could only dream of achieving some day, Mrs. Fell placed a napkin on her husband's lap and served him a warm plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes that had been cooked to perfection – her oven wouldn't dare give her anything less, it had seen what she did to the house plants. Mr. Fell was used to the most delicious food, and though her cooking was nothing fancy, he always gave her a compliment that made her heart flutter.

“You're getting excellent at this, love,” he told her, stroking the back of her hand while she watched him eat, enjoying each mouthful immensely. “And how was your day?”

“I caught Mrs. Crowley doing things she shouldn't with a man who wasn't her husband,” she told him.

Mr. Fell shook his head at her, but he was amused. “I don't believe that is any of our business, love. Nor the neighbors.”

“They seemed more willing to shoot the messenger than to believe I word I said.”

“I swear you'll have them chase us out of town with torches and pitchforks.”

“Oh, I doubt it'll ever come to that. These people are too polite. Besides, it's hardly my fault that Mrs. Crowley is bored. Clearly, she has a terrible husband who doesn't take care of her needs.”

“I don't know. She seems quite infatuated with him whenever I see them. Perhaps he's just so _nice_ and _loving_ and _respectful-_ ”

Mrs. Fell's eyes flared and she hissed, “You take that back.”

“Never.” He took her hand and kissed it. Mrs. Fell softened. “There's no shame in adoring the one you love.”

“I do think my husband is the best one, though.”

“He loves you very much. And he is _much_ better at following instructions than Mr. Crowley.”

Mr. Fell got up and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Do the dishes, love, then come sit with me in the living room.”

Mrs. Fell collected the dirty dishes and washed them by hand on the sink. She could have gotten rid of the task in a matter of seconds, but there was a feeling of exhilarating expectation stewing in her belly and she wanted to let it sit there for a while. In London, she hated to wait. Here, she was learning the benefits of letting herself enjoy the anticipation.

Mr. Fell had his eyes closed when she joined him on the couch. Some days, he'd be reading one of the many books that covered the walls of the living room, but tonight he really was exhausted, it seemed. Still, he draped an arm around her and brought her close to him so she fitted her head on the crook of his neck.

After a few moments of sitting quietly, just basking in his presence and feeling so content to be there, Mr. Fell's hand started idly stroking her arm, then quickly edging closer to her breast. He traced circles over her dress, teasing her left nipple very softly. Mrs. Fell sighed and let her body relax.

After a moment of this, he asked, “Now, love, does this look proper to you?”

Mrs. Fell looked down at her left breast. Her hardened nipple formed an almost invisible bump on the fabric of her dress.

“You know the rules, love,” he told her, stern but absentminded as he continued to play with her. “You can tempt as many people as you want, we all have our hobbies, but I expect some modesty in my house.”

Her knee-jerk reaction was to snap back at him, not with anything mean, just a passing remark on how he enjoyed her being a little wicked. Just something to put him back in his place. Instead, she swallowed the bitter answer and said, “I'm sorry Mr. Fell. I'll be more mindful in the future.”

Apologizing always made something acid churn in her stomach, like she was going against her very nature and should be ashamed of herself for being so considerate. That only lasted until Mr. Fell gave her a kiss on the top of the head and whispered, “Such a good girl,” in a loving tone that turned her bones to jelly. She _was_ good. Not always, not everywhere, but _there_. In their little corner of the world, she was good. And the best part was that no one had to know. It was their little secret.

“Give me a kiss.”

She pecked her lips to his a few times until her lips parted open and he kissed her more deeply. His hand sneaked inside her neckline and gave her right breast a gentle squeeze. Mrs. Fell gasped for air and felt a plea ( _harder, hurt me_ ) crawling up her throat, but then Mr. Fell kissed her neck and the words fell back. She could be patient. She knew there was pleasure in gentleness, too. Such vulgarities only happened in London or in the Crowley's home, but not there, not with her loving husband who believed her to be so much better than she actually was.

He freed his member and put her delicate hand on it. She explored his length with her fingertips. She knew that her husband was rather average in size in girth, especially when compared to what she'd had before they came to Lower Tadfield. In London, she allowed herself to appease her most basic urges by being greedy and begging her lover to take her to extremes. He always left her sore and filthy, which was invariably accompanied by a peaceful daze that seemed to quiet her very soul. There was beauty in such greed, just as in destruction and mayhem.

If asked, though, Mrs. Fell would say that her husband was perfect. She'd gladly give up London if she could be here with him forever, though she'd never admit to it out loud.

“May I put it in my mouth, Mr. Fell?” she asked, light-headed from the way he was tracing circles around her right nipple.

“Not too deep, love. You are a respectable married woman after all.”

She leaned over and kissed the head of his cock. She had to be mindful of the way she used her mouth on him. Once, a wicked little voice had told her to take it all in until it hit the back of her throat. Mr. Fell had sighed and moaned and come quickly.

“That was lovely, dear,” he'd panted, stroking her red hair and she looked up at him from the floor.

“Thank you, Mr. Fell.”

“But that was not quite proper for a married lady.”

He'd given her a spanking after that, which was something he hadn't done since the earlier days of their marriage when Mrs. Fell still required a firm hand. Not that she was complaining. It's been quite arousing to be thrown over his lap, and she even allowed her to say bad words just so she could promise with every blow he delivered to her backside, “I will not such cock like a whore!”

She whispered those words, shouted them, and finally whimpered into her hands, her red bottom sore and the message learned. She was never improper again. After all, what was the point of moving if she could just go back to the bad habits she'd had in the city?

Besides, they could always spend a weekend in her London flat, and there the rules, the dress codes, and the make-believe were not allowed. There, she would choke on his cock at her leisure and do things to him that were truly ungodly. If she put her mind to it, she could put Mrs. Crowley's fantasies to shame.

She bobbed her head on his lap, up and down, paying attention to the soft sighs and the heavy hand on the back of her head that stroked her hair in an encouraging way.

“Such a good girl,” Mr. Fell said. “You've done enough. Go wait upstairs, love.”

Her dress was folded over the dresser and she slipped on a pretty nightgown. When Mr. Fell finally made his way to their bedroom, he gazed at her, lying on her back, and nodded approvingly. He undressed slowly and she knew he was enjoying making her wait even longer so he could undo every button on his shirt and put every piece away neatly. Finally, he lied naked beside her and lowered the straps of her nightgown so he could see her breasts.

“Such a beautiful lady,” he said and lowered his mouth to kiss her nipples, one at a time.

Mrs. Fell pressed her knees together not to offer herself shamelessly to him. She could have wept with joy when he lowered her panties to her ankles.

Mr. Fell said, “Let me take a look at you.”

He knelt between her legs and parted them, eyes on her exposed sex. He teased her with his index finger. Mrs. Fell could feel every muscle in her sex contracting and aching under that gentle touch. She'd been feeling slick between the legs from the moment he entered the house and only decency had stopped her from wrapping her legs around his waist and taking him in before they even left the foyer.

“I think I'm going to give you a little treat tonight, love, since you made such a delicious meal.”

She saw him lower his head towards her and felt him kiss the wetness in between her legs, causing her to shiver. He hardly ever did that, she wouldn't ask him to, which only made moments like this all the more special.

He ran his tongue along her entrance and she let out a little shriek.

“Don't be so eager, love.”

She bit her lips and said, “Of course, Mr. Fell. I'll be quiet.”

But that proved to be nearly impossible when he started lapping at her clit persistently.

“Mr. Fell, can I c-” She covered her mouth. She could feel him pulling away and watching disapprovingly. If she let that word slip, he might wash her filthy mouth with soap. Last time, he'd used a drop of holy water to make the lesson stick. It had worked. She rephrased, “Will you let me finish?”

“Already?”

“Yes, please.”

He hummed as he thought, his thumb rubbing her mound.

“Maybe if you hadn't worn that dress, love. As it is, I'll make you wait until I'm inside of you.”

Mrs. Fell bit her lips not to groan with frustration. Being rude would not help her.

She spread her legs a little further apart. “Then... then will you make love to me?”

“Not yet, and stop offering yourself.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Fell.”

He went back to pleasuring her. Mrs. Fell grabbed the sheets underneath her and tried not to think of how wonderful it felt to be worshiped in such a way.

“Not yet, love,” he said, but it was getting increasingly harder. He was slowly taking her to the verge of disobedience.

“Mr. Fell, please-”

“No, not yet.”

“I- I want to pleasure you. I want to make you happy.”

He kissed her gently on the inside of her thighs. “Do you really, love?”

“Yes, please...” she panted. “Please, take me.”

“You beg so beautifully. How could I say no to you?”

He lied on top of her, effortlessly entering her body and making her gasp with joy. Her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands found their way to his hair when he began to worship her breasts with his mouth. It was wonderful. Her husband was wonderful.

“There's a good girl. Such a lovely wife,” he told her in between kisses. “Don't hold back, love. Moan for me. Show me how much you love your husband's cock.”

Satan's sake, she loved it when he whispered something dirty in her ear, even something as simple as that. His mouth moved closer to her ear.

“That's it. Such a lovely girl. So very good.”

She held on tight to him, waiting, just hanging on the edge for him to say the word.

He kissed her on the neck, and he finally did.

“You may finish now, love. Go on.”

She strangled a cry that tried very hard to break free from her lips and buried her head on his shoulder, her tiny frame shaking as her body gave in to pleasure. She was falling. Her arms and legs tightened around him, too afraid to let go. He passed an arm around her and brought her even closer.

“I've got you, love. Such a good girl.”

She felt tearful and joyful and so very loved. She never wanted to let go of him.

Mr. Fell gave her three more strokes and came inside of her with a contented sigh. When he tried to roll on his side, she tightened her grip.

“You alright, love?”

She didn't answer. He didn't insist, nor did he try to move away again.

Mrs. Fell asked, “Do you have to work tomorrow?”

She hated how weepy her voice sounded.

Mr. Fell kissed her shoulder.

“Tell you what, love. If work tomorrow is too exhausting for little old me, I'm sure I'll have to spend the entire weekend resting at home. Then, I'll let you pamper me at your heart's content.”

Mrs. Fell grinned from ear to ear, eyes wet and a heart as light as a feather.

“Oh, angel,” she told him, though her voice was a lot more wicked now. “You're in for quite a ride tomorrow.”


End file.
